Mass Effect: Instigation
by Patient131071
Summary: AU: Thaddaeus Shepard is a childhood prodigy-and a murderer. Just what Miranda Lawson needs to help her escape from her father... up front I do not own Bioware or its creations .
1. Thaddaeus

Author's note: This is my first ever fanfic, nay, the first ever writing project of a reasonable length I've ever been able to finish. I'm fairly pleased with it, but as a perfectionist, I'd appreciate any constructive criticism of the story/my writing style so that I can improve. So, read and review, please...

Edit: I have now dealt with the fact that much of the text was in large, monolithic paragraphs, which made it a little difficult to read.

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Chapter 1: Thaddaeus

Thaddaeus Shepard had always been alone, for as long as he could remember. His first memories were of an orphanage in the south east of England, where he spent the first part of his childhood. Even there, his relationships had been few and distant. Thaddaeus didn't have friends; he had allies, and adversaries. But mostly adversaries. He found the common obsession of humanity to connect with those around them baffling, mainly because everyone was simply _boring._

He instead concentrated on gathering knowledge, not of people, but of science, history, philosophy, anything that could give him information that was innately useful or could be transferred. Shepard had no illusions in life, understanding that if his back were to the wall, the only person who could be relied upon to act was himself, therefore he needed to know _how_ to act. The adults he dealt with found his gravity unsettling, and left him alone, simply thankful that he was an attentive and talented pupil that needed little in the way of support. The other children however, reacted as most humans will when confronted with something that they don't understand; they acted with fear and hostility; on the grounds of his half Greek ethnicity, his intelligence, and his growing contempt for those around him.

For a time, the young boy was oblivious to the negative effects of his self-ostracisement, until one of the older boys in the orphanage took it upon himself to make him pay more attention to those around him. Thaddaeus did not enjoy the experience, but understood that if he told the adults who had dislocated his shoulder, there would be other repercussions; including losing any remaining amicability he had with his peers. Instead, he fixed the problem himself; intimidating one of his peers into pulling his shoulder back into place, before stealing into the room of the boy who had done it at night, smothering him into unconsciousness, then quite deliberately dislocating _both_ his arms. The next morning, he was in the crowd as the boy was taken to hospital, and ensured he made eye contact. The older boy understood what that stare meant; 'Anything you do to me, I will do to you. With interest.'

While that solved one of his problems, Shepard knew that it was necessary to come to understand those around him, regardless of their complexity, or more often lack thereof; it was a matter of personal survival. Revenge attacks became pre-emptive strikes, and Thaddaeus became a figure to be feared. However, the boy became arrogant, and more of his strikes became about curiosity on matters of anatomy and less about personal safety, to the point at which many of his peers began to feel that something had to be done to protect their own safety. They did what Thaddaeus had scrupulously avoided doing, and escalated the matter by involving adults; friends who had left the orphanage, now fully grown and in an ideal position to 'put the freak in his place'. Thaddaeus barely survived that beating, and was knocked unconscious, but passed it off as a mere mugging. Once, however, he was let out of hospital, he spent much of his time discerning the identities of the conspirators. Once he had them, his anger got the better of him, and in his enthusiasm, he managed to kill one of the boys.

At that point, he knew that the police would get involved, and it seemed most prudent to take his leave. At the age of ten, he had departed from the orphanage, cut short his education and fled to the capital, London, where within the slums he managed to scratch a living as a thief. He made quite a good one, instinctively understanding the principles of stealth and avoiding attention; yet he lacked the equipment to get around modern security systems, and he was unlikely to get it. His occupation was obviously a dead end, providing some resources but no real path to wealth or power; and these were Thaddaeus' goals in life. He had encountered various gangs as soon as he had entered the capital. _They_ had access to resources he could use, but for that he'd have to join them, and none of them were able to see the use of having a now eleven year old boy in their group. Obviously he'd have to prove his use to them, and clearly the best way to do that was to attack one of the gangs in order to curry favour with their rivals.

Which was why he was quietly making his way through dark, dank alleyways towards the territory of the 'Black Sun' gang, an admittedly pretentious name that for some reason appealed to him. The murder hadn't been difficult. Even the gangs lacked the self awareness to understand that a pre-pubescent boy could present a threat. The boy had located his target, a gang 'lieutenant', important enough to go around with a bodyguard, but not inaccessible. Shepard had ducked into a doorway and pulled a balaclava over his face, before pushing his way through the crowd. This being gang territory, people simply thought he was 'one of theirs' and cleared the way, giving Shepard a path straight to his target, and a clear shot. He had multiple knives that he had found were correctly balanced to be thrown, and as he had found out, (to his surprise, willing to but not relishing the prospect of getting his skill up to standard) he was an excellent marksman. He had only needed one opportunity, before he lost himself in the milling, terrified crowd, ripped the balaclava from his head, and joined the stampede away from the indiscriminate, ineffective retribution of the lieutenant's 'bodyguard'.

"You again?" had been the first incredulous question as Shepard arrived at the Black Sun's headquarters. "We don't need midgets. Wait until you're old enough to be useful, then come back."

"Murdering one of the rival lieutenants to your gang doesn't count as useful?" His response was a jeering laughter. "Check my story." He sighed. "A lieutenant of the Guild was murdered by a 'midget' wearing a balaclava with a throwing knife through the eye. Allow me to demonstrate." He said, and flung a second of his blades...

So that it pierced the eye of one of the obscene posters on the walls of the hideout. The distance had been about fifteen metres. Thaddaeus' story was verified, and he became something of a rarity for the gangs of the slums; a coldly efficient covert killer. As such, he was rewarded with a silenced lightweight Walther P22 lightweight pistol that a rival gang member had bought before he was killed. Shepard's reputation grew, though he had made it one of the conditions of his employment that his identity be kept secret, as well as his allegiance-easy enough as every gang was claiming that this 'Ombre' (selected by Shepard himself; French for 'shadow') was one of theirs, and that the murder of one of their gang members had been their recruitment test. Over the next four years, things went well for Shepard, and he became the leader of a small band of covert killers for the Black Sun, selected and trained by himself.

Then, when he was fifteen, _she_ walked into what he pompously referred to as his office...


	2. Ombre

Chapter 2: Ombre

_She _immediately made him understand what the word 'beautiful' meant. She had a cold, regal bearing and an inherent level of grace that impressed him, and her body was without fault, curvaceous and lush; her clothing did little to conceal this. Shepard had hoped that through some biological fluke, he would be immune to some of the effects of the hormones in his system; perhaps a side effect of his psychopathy, of which he was well aware, even proud. He had never encountered evidence to contradict this hope. Until now. Thaddaeus felt the teeth of lust inside his head, and laughed at himself, in his usual ironic fashion. _So much for that particular delusion of grandeur._ He returned his attention to the woman, about four years older than himself, he guessed. Her expression had changed from calmly neutral to cold displeasure. Obviously, she was unused to amusement being the reaction men had when they saw her.

Shepard coughed. "I apologise. My amusement was directed at myself, not at you. Damn hormones..." He muttered, then perceived that she had heard him. "Don't worry; I seem to have _some_ remaining capacity for rational thought. My amusement was due to the vain hope that I would be immune to this sort of thing. How may I help you?"

Miranda Lawson was somewhat taken aback by this particular specimen of humanity.

Niket had warned her that this Ombre would be a mere adolescent, but she'd still expected someone on the other side of sixteen. Apparently he was some sort of teenage psychopath prodigy that had been forced from the straight and narrow by circumstance, and found that he'd_ liked _it. Even more impressive, he was completely self-taught. Apparently, all sorts of organisations were interested in tapping into his potential, including Cerberus, who had requested that she attempt to bring him into the organisation with her, when she made them aware of her plan. She now felt that this was something of a vain hope. For a start, of all the reactions to her appearance she had observed, from open lust to awe and even fear, this one's was unique. He had acknowledged her appearance, and his physical reaction to it, mocked himself for it, seeing it as a weakness, and moved on.

Then, there was his appearance, his obviously young face already gaunt and bleached due to his nocturnal activities. And, there was that cynical, ironic awareness in his eyes, that he had seen the world, and had no illusions about it, that made her think that the only way to recruit this... assassin, would be with money. He would believe in nothing else. And it would cost an obscene amount, either in currency or time in haggling. Miranda found herself intrigued, finding a specimen as abnormal as herself, but realised that now was not the time. She entered a command into her Omni-tool (a piece of equipment she noticed he eyed enviously, with more desire in his eyes than when he looked at her-not that it took much), which would send out a false recording of the conversation to her father's surveillance devices. He believed that she was there to engage this boy's services for the company, when in actuality; he would be working to sever her ties with it.

"I take it you are Thaddaeus Shepard, also known as Ombre?" Shepard thought for a moment. Slight Australian accent, intonation and speech patterns tied in with everything else to indicate that she came from money; and about as far as was possible from the gangs. Clearly, he'd attracted too much attention to himself, again. Damn.

"I am." He admitted carefully. _Good. _Miranda thought._ No childish denials, like I might have expected. So young, and already a professional._ "So, who are you and which corporation do you represent?"

_Surprisingly close_. "My name is Miranda Lawson." No risk telling him that; she didn't exist on any records, anyway, thanks to her father. "I am here as a private individual, although if I feel that your performance is adequate, there may be an employment opportunity for you that would remove you from these... charming surroundings. Employment with an organisation called Cerberus."

"Human supremacist paramilitary group. I've heard of them. They think I'm that special, do they?" He said with his lip slightly curled, in contempt for a group with such beliefs. They were irrational. Xenophobia was fine by him, as long as _everyone _was counted as xenos; this was essentially his world view. Anything else could be dismissed as bigotry and hypocrisy; little better than _superstition_, which Shepard held in the deepest contempt of all. "I'm interested." The woman looked mildly surprised; clearly she had noticed his contempt and had not expected such a response. "I don't have to believe in their cause to take their money, Miss Lawson. Besides, it is clear that I need to change my allegiances, if the Black Sun was so ineffective at concealing me. This 'Cerberus' is stronger, if the few times I've heard of it are any indication. What's the job?"

"I need you to stake out a rendezvous, eliminate any suspicious activity as quietly as possible, then meet the individual and escort them off of the planet. Transport will be provided."

"And why do you want to get off-planet, Miss Lawson? From whom are you fleeing?" She looked at him steadily. "Fair enough. I _am_ a professional, I'm sure I don't need the details, but information is power, after all. What strength opposition will we be facing?" She raised an eyebrow. "Come now, I can recognise the bearing of an individual trained for combat as well as any military man. Besides, if you were unwilling to get your hands dirty if necessary, I'd turn you down."

"Professionals, mercenaries, but theoretically, little more than heavily armed thugs."

"In that case, I'll require heavier weaponry, preferably with a better range to it, as well." He said, drawing his beloved P22 from its armpit holster to show it to her.

"I predicted as much. Firearms have always been difficult to come by in the UK." Miranda said, picking up the suitcase she had brought, and opened it to reveal a disassembled sniper rifle. She put it together with practised ease, Shepard noticed, beginning to find her interesting for more reasons than just her appearance.

"The Knight M110 SASS, semi automatic sniper rifle. Equipped with a silencer, as well as a conventional scope that can be adjusted to night vision. Ammunition is armour piercing, and is in clips of ten rounds each. I trust that this will be adequate?"

"I believe so. When is the rendezvous?"

"Tonight. Midnight. The rendezvous will be in the plaza outside the local headquarters of the Rossum Corporation. I apologise for the short notice, but devising a plausible reason to contact you proved... complex."

"It's fine." He assured her, his eyes on the weapon. "That should be ample time for me to familiarise myself with the weapon. I'll be there from ten pm, as soon as it's dark. As for my fee, I'm sure a 'modest' sum to you will exceed anything I've ever earned from the Black Sun." She nodded and left. Neither of them wished each other luck. They each knew what they were doing, and if luck came into it, they would have serious problems.


	3. Difficulties

Chapter 3: Difficulties

After dark, Thaddaeus made his way through the alleyways of the city to the fence that divided the Slums from civilisation. From there, he dropped down into the subterranean routes associated with the old sewers designed by Balzagette, long since abandoned. This was how Ombre navigated the city, avoiding detection with ease, as only an avid student of history could, given the fact that the old sewers had even been forgotten by law enforcement. He navigated his way to Canary Wharf, still the centre of London's most influential companies, though no longer limited to finance, or even entirely legal enterprises. That is, if any of these companies had even been strictly legal.

At around this time, the immigrants would be cleaning out the offices on the lower floors, just as they always had done-still willing to sacrifice more of their dignity than anyone else to make some money. This meant that while external security measures were active, internal measures were not for the vast majority of buildings in the area. Ombre used an archaic palmtop computer that had the latest software for Omni-tools adapted to it, and successfully hacked the external security of the Eldfell-Ashland Group's building, which occupied the most advantageous spot on the plaza for a sniper. Avoiding the cameras and cleaners, Shepard made his way to the first floor, then locked himself in an office with an acceptable view, and a window that he opened. He had chosen the first floor due to the requirements of this job involving direct intervention, which might also require moving in to close quarters. The jump from a first floor window was survivable, and therefore also the quickest route, if a little sloppy. However, it didn't really matter. He would soon be leaving this entire planet behind. He assembled the M110, flicked the scope onto night vision mode, loaded and cocked the weapon, before settling in to survey the area for the two hours before the rendezvous. The plaza was empty, with no activity at all, suspicious or otherwise. Shepard surveyed the offices next, for other individuals of a similar occupation to himself. He almost wished for them, never having had to pit himself against another of the same profession. However, perhaps fortunately, there were none.

It was five minutes before the rendezvous with Miranda, and Thaddaeus was having to actively prevent himself from becoming restless and impatient. These were the marks of a poor assassin; things that led to mistakes, a lack of employment, and probably death. Something in the peripheral vision of his scope drew his eye, not from the ground, but from the Rossum Corporation's building. A flicker of light in one of the upper office windows, a door opening, perhaps. Ombre tensed. This was followed by more flashes of light, more yellow than white. Muzzle flashes; gunfire. The night vision scope was compensating admirably, but it was impossible to see what was going on, however hard Shepard strained to see. The muzzle flashes began to be accompanied by a more constant blue glow, which suddenly flashed out, blowing out a number of windows on that floor. _A blue explosion. Chemical weapons?_ Shepard could now, however, see what was going on. The beautiful Miranda Lawson stood framed against the shattered window, her back to her ally.

Then, quite deliberately, she turned and threw herself out of the window, startling the boy into releasing his breath in a gasp. She was dead, and it would _not_ be pretty when she hit the ground. Shepard almost packed up his equipment there and then, but a kind of morbid curiosity caused him to track her with his scope as she plummeted to her doom. Then, about ten metres off of the ground, _she_ began to glow with that same blue light as he had seen in the building a few seconds earlier. Her fall decelerated rapidly, and she managed to land well, rolling with the impact with the hard concrete and staggering to her feet. Sure no one would be watching him during _that_ spectacle, Shepard granted himself a violent oath.

"What the _Fuck?_" Behind her, at the main entrance to the Rossum building, armed personnel stormed out, weapons raised, and opened fire. Shepard reacted instinctively, exhaling and holding his breath, before squeezing off three shots in rapid succession out of his opened window. Three of the mercenaries dropped; bloody, ragged holes in their skulls. Shepard adjusted his aim and fired again, reducing the number of personnel by half to four men. The others retreated into the building, searching for the hidden sniper. Shepard spared a moment to check Miranda's status. She was barely staying on her feet, clearly dazed and staggered, not even making the effort to open fire on her pursuers or escape. Shepard swore vehemently; whatever she had done to survive that fall had clearly eliminated her energy reserves.

He opened fire on the glass walls of the Rossum building as a few of the now reinforced security guards attempted to advance again, shattering the transparent material, killing two of them and sending the rest diving into more secure protection. Shepard cursed again, realising he would be unable to bring the rifle with him, as it would impede his movements. He flicked the safety back on automatically, cast it aside, and braced himself, before casting himself out of the open first floor window. The impact was jarring, but not as bad as he'd expected it to be, as he landed and rolled to his feet with catlike grace, his lightweight pistol already in his right hand as he sprinted towards his client.

"Move!" He snapped at her as she turned to look at him, her eyes unresponsive. He fired a brace of shots at the building she had come from in order to buy himself some time, then quickly plunged his left hand into his jacket pocket, and brought out an adrenaline needle in a sterile packet. He ripped it open, tested the syringe, then quickly plunged it into the muscle on the inside of Miranda's right thigh through her clothes, before injecting its contents. The reaction was immediate. She grunted in pain, her eyes now alert, and let him withdraw the needle and cast it aside, before spinning to look at the main entrance, out of which security personnel were issuing once more. Her eyes widened, and she fumbled with the machine pistol she was carrying, somewhat unnecessarily as it turned out. Coolly Shepard once more turned his pistol on their assailants, firing in quick bursts of two rounds, each of which brought down an enemy. He fired three bursts, then pulled the trigger once, achieving a headshot, before reloading smoothly, with practised ease and speed, before opening fire in his two-round bursts again. His form was flawless, Miranda observed, then turned to glance at him, seeing a look of total focus on his face, and a _very_ slight (probably unnoticeable to those who didn't know what to look for), blue aura. The boy-assassin was a biotic: and a _damned _powerful one if his instinctive, probably unknowing use of his power _without_ implants to improve his marksmanship and movements was any indication.

"Move." He said flatly, not turning his attention from his work. "My ammunition is not unlimited."

Miranda raised her own VP70 machine pistol, and fired a spread of three-round bursts at her father's men, causing them to falter, before running towards the opposite side of the plaza, Shepard bringing up the rear. They were both in exceptional shape, but with Shepard's relative youth, being not yet fully grown, despite his biotics, he couldn't maintain this all-out sprint for long. In her exhausted state, neither could Miranda. It was, however, gaining them some breathing space, lightly armoured and armed as they were compared to their pursuers.

"Where's the transport?" He asked her brusquely, looking over his shoulder to monitor the progress of the likely vengeful mercenaries.

"We're being extracted from the river." She gasped, her utter weariness evident in her voice. "It's not far."

Naturally, it was at this point that they heard the growl of pursuit vehicles in their wake.


	4. Burdens

Chapter 4: Burdens

Shepard dragged Miranda off of the main street and down a narrow pedestrian route, knowing that they had to start using a route on which they couldn't be followed by those wretched better equipped mercs. Now, it was Shepard leading the way, relying on an instinctive sense of direction to take the narrowest and most confusing route possible while still leading them towards the correct section of the river. Then, they heard that same drone up ahead of them.

"Mindless thugs, eh?" Thaddaeus commented sourly. "They've split up, and the vehicles have gone ahead of us. Now we're going to have to punch through to the extraction point. They know we're coming this way; doubtless they're coordinating with those pursuing us on foot, so there's no way we can avoid them."

Miranda nodded, still gasping for breath. They had paused for a second, but they didn't have long before the team behind them would catch up. The boy looked at her, evaluating her ability to function in combat. Doubtless it would have been acceptable without that suicide stunt (whatever _that_ was), but now...

"Give me your gun. Concentrate on running; I'll keep them off of you." Shepard said, not nearly as grudgingly as he might have done, though; inwardly he was, on some level, relishing the challenge. Miranda looked like if she had more energy, she'd argue, but as it was she couldn't summon the breath, so she simply complied. Shepard carried the more precise P22 in his right hand, and the VP70 in his left. He moved out into the street, knowing that they had waited too long, and the team on foot would be right on top of them as they tried to punch through the line ahead of them. He nodded over his shoulder.

"Go ahead; I'll catch up in a moment when I've frightened them a bit." He said with a vicious grin. The persistence of these men was somewhat impressive, but it was also irritating and inconvenient. She ran on, but not too quickly, not wanting to encounter the interception group with only her biotics to protect her.

Shepard waited about ten seconds before the first men ran around the corner, a tight group of five men. He sprayed three bursts out of the machine pistol in his left hand for their benefit; all of them fell, three of them wouldn't be getting up again. Then another pair of laggards rounded the corner, and he picked them off with three shots from his P22. The other mercenaries now knew that there was a hostile presence around the corner, and so one of them merely peeked around the corner to see what was going on. He was rewarded with a shot in the eye.

Knowing that he would have at least made them cautious, Shepard turned and ran off after Miranda as silently as he could so that they would think that there were still personnel waiting for them. He managed to catch up with her after about a minute of hard running; she was in no hurry to try and punch through the next line without him. Fortunately (or perhaps not) just before he drew level with her and they rounded the corner, they encountered the first of the teams sent ahead to intercept them. It would have been an extremely effective tactic if Ombre hadn't recognised it, and mentally prepared himself accordingly. In a chase, the focus of the quarry is always on whether they are still being pursued from behind, so a surprise interception from the front will invariably catch the prey off of their guard. _It's a pity for them that their vehicles are so loud; it completely destroyed their tactic_.

As it was, Ombre didn't hesitate in the slightest. The enemy fire team was five strong, and right on top of them, but in a loose formation. Shepard noted their weaponry; assault rifles, then immediately charged straight into the middle of their formation, ensuring that they would be hesitant to fire for fear of hitting their comrades. At that point, in close quarters, it was a simple matter to plant shots in their heads. Miranda had stayed off to one side, then joined him as they moved on, knowing that the gunfire would have drawn the other teams towards their location, and that at that point there would be too many to fight.

Their next encounter with the enemy went rather less smoothly; three fire teams converged onto the street ahead of them, totalling fifteen mercenaries, and they had already detected their quarry, not advancing but choosing positions to repel them. Assaulting a prepared, better armed and larger force in an organised defensive position was never a good idea. He turned to look behind them for an alternate route; saw that they wouldn't make it far due to the five squads advancing behind them.

"Shit." He tried to think of a workable strategy, but it appeared that despite the odds of them getting completely shredded, their best and only course was to charge the position ahead of them-

He saw a blue flash next to him again, instinctively turned to see what Miranda was doing, only she wasn't next to him anymore. Somehow, she had managed to cover the distance between them and the enemy in the blink of an eye, smashing into one of them and knocking him down, disrupting the rest. Unfortunately, a clear shot at them was also out of the question. He swore again, discarded the virtually empty VP70, and drew a vicious looking stiletto blade from the back of his belt, before charging in after her, hoping she could survive and keep them distracted long enough for him to reach her-

She didn't. Exhausted beyond all possibility of functioning, she had stumbled, and been knocked down by one of the security personnel.

"FUCK!" Shepard was almost there, but immediately regretted that outburst, prompted by the adrenaline rushing through him. He opened fire with his pistol, his aim worsened by his rapid movement but still scoring hits that send men staggering and brought a couple of them down. Then, as the first rounds began to sear past him, Shepard was in among them, his unorthodox fighting style immediately apparent; fast and fluid and brutal and designed to cause as much damage as possible as fast as possible. He stabbed and ripped with his blade, and fired shots point blank with the pistol, pushing the enemy back with the sheer brutality of his assault.

He ducked a shot from a guard, swept back up and slashed his carotid artery as he continued past him and shot another man in the face, before parrying a lunge from a guard whose gun had a bayonet with his blade, then goring the man through the eye with the long thin steel, following up with a gut shot on the man to his left, who fell, his finger spasming on the trigger and eliminating three of his comrades for Shepard, who, aware that his pistol was empty, adjusted his grip slightly before smashing a guard in the temple with it, knocking him unconscious and probably leaving him with brain damage, before reversing his backhanded grip on his knife midway through a slash to cut the next man's jugular vein past his desperate parry, then ramming the dying man into his comrade behind him, sending the latter staggering backwards under his ally's dead weight leaving Shepard free to knock aside the aim of the final man-

Not quite soon enough, as he felt two powerful jolts and a strangely numbing pain in his right leg and chest, and realised he'd been shot. The merc, thinking he'd won, was already wearing a sneering grin as he looked down on the fifteen year old...

Who spat at him, then _head butted_ him in the throat, crushing his windpipe and choking him. Shepard sheathed his knife, fretting about the blood on the blade but realising that there was not time to deal with it now, before reloading and turning back down the street to find Miranda. What he saw made him decide he'd had _quite_ enough of this particular job.

She was unconscious, partially buried underneath one of the mercenaries he'd killed. Past her were the other five advancing teams, about to enter firing range. He was tempted to groan another curse, but saved his breath, pulled the dead man off of her, then, not without difficulty, hurriedly picked her up and slung her over his left shoulder in a sort of fireman's lift, his pistol still in his right hand. She was heavier than he'd expected, though perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised; she was taller than him, and full-bodied, to attempt to put it delicately, and these things made carrying her like that almost impossible. He ignored that, and got on with it. Ignoring the messages from his right leg to stop whatever it was that he was doing, _now_, he turned and managed to run up the street, where, thankfully, he could see the river. He had intended to take another side street, before, and attempt to come out in a different location that the enemy wouldn't be expecting, but he could no longer outrun his pursuers, burdened as he was, and he would not last the attempt. Instead, he ran on, hoping that they'd expected him to follow his previous m.o. and hadn't stationed any more men there. His hope was in vain. He bit off a furious curse, his adolescent voice taking on an uncharacteristically shrill note as he managed to lose control of his emotions for a change, tears of rage blurring his eyes as he saw the paltry five men that were just too much.

He stopped, planning to put the woman who had caused her all this trouble down, and end her humanely at least-he had seen the fear in her eyes as she had thought of Rossum, and whoever it was she was fleeing: a bullet between the eyes was all the kindness he could afford, and he _really _didn't have time to analyse and understand why he wanted to bother. Didn't have time for anything, it seemed...

The shuttle roared overhead, then hovered behind the final fire team, its door opening, and the three commandos inside laying down a withering hail of fire that brought down the final obstacle.

"Come on!" One of them beckoned to him in a rough British accent. Thaddaeus just staggered over, sparing a glance over his shoulder to see that the men behind them had pulled up short, realising they wouldn't be able to catch him and his burden. Vengefully, Shepard fired off the clip in his pistol into their ranks, provoking a scattered, ineffective reply as he finally made it to the shuttle, and handed his client over to the extraction team, before accepting a hand up onto the shuttle, and turning to take his final parting shot at Earth.

"Auf Wiedersehen, pet." Then, the shuttle doors closed, and he sagged, suddenly aware of just how much pain just about all of his body was in. He gritted his teeth, stifled the groan, then limped over to the free seat next to where they were checking Miranda over, and slumped into it. The medic, noting the bullet wounds in his chest and leg, half stood, carrying medigel, but Shepard shook his head.

"See to her." He said curtly, then reached into his jacket pocket, took out a bottle of Vicodin painkillers, and swallowed a pair, before sighing and releasing his mental grip on his body. Exhausted, blackness overtook him.


	5. Miranda

Chapter 5: Miranda

Lawson woke up first, after a day unconscious, and demanded to know what had happened whilst she was unaware. She was told that they didn't actually know, and that she would just have to ask the boy when he woke up. _If_ he woke up, the Cerberus commando added sourly. Miranda was unsurprised that she had recovered first, given the fact that Shepard, good as he was, hadn't been created with a nigh-superhuman capacity to heal. Furthermore, she hadn't taken anything like the number of injuries he had, although the extent to which she'd exhausted herself _had _put her life in more immediate danger than his. The Cerberus medical team responsible for his recovery were actually baffled by how he'd managed to cope with his wounds and complete the mission regardless.

"That bullet in his leg broke the bone." She was told. "He shouldn't even have been able to _stand_, let alone run out of there with _you_ slung over a shoulder. With all that, the break should also have been made far worse, but it seems like something just held it in place, yet he didn't have a splint or anything."

Miranda suspected that this was more subconscious biotics at work, and wondered how his body could manage to operate them at such an instinctive and subtle level, particularly in such traumatic conditions. She enquired, carefully so as to avoid giving information away unnecessarily, as to whether the scans had revealed any signs of biotic potential, nodes of element zero present in his body, etc. She was greeted by a blank look and told that there were no indications of biotic potential in Shepard _at all_. That was a revelation; she thought _she'd_ been unique, but Shepard appeared to be the impossible personified.

She made a complete recovery a day or so after waking up, but was forced to wait another two for her rescuer to revive, a wait she was none too pleased about. To occupy herself, she looked at the results of the tests the Cerberus medics had performed on him, but could find no explanation whatsoever for his biotics. She suspected that it might be a genetic mutation, but couldn't ask for a test to be performed without attracting suspicion, as well as being forced to reveal the results. She wasn't entirely sure why she was keeping such impressive data from her new employers, but decided that she wanted to speak to Thaddaeus first, at least.

Fortunately, by that point she didn't have to wait long. She was waiting by his bedside as he stirred, and tensed, before forcing himself to relax again as he considered what he could about this room without alerting the people in it.

"You're among friends, Shepard."

"Whose?" He countered, grinning slightly at the repartee, keeping his eyes shut for a second, then opening them looking straight at her. "Hmm, seems we both have questions. You wouldn't be here otherwise."

"What if I wanted to thank you?"

"Could have waited, and we both know it. Besides, you're paying me. So, shall we ask our questions in the order they occurred? Well now, do you suppose you could tell me how you threw yourself out of that building but somehow hit the ground as something other than a bloody smear?"

"I'm a biotic."

"Should have worked that out for myself. Idiot." Shepard grunted angrily.

"My turn, then. What happened when I was unconscious?"

"You'd charged into a group of fifteen mercs using biotics, I assume because you'd realised the same as me that they were our only way out." She nodded. "Of course, you had also completely exhausted yourself doing so, and they managed to bring you down before I could get there. The situation was... _interesting._ I ended up having to kill them at close quarters, then carry you to the river, trying to stay ahead of the other group that was after us. There was another team of them blocking the way, and, having been shot as I'm sure you know, I was in no real state to get through them. I reckoned we were fucked. I'd been about to put you down and put you out of your misery when the shuttle arrived and got us evacuated."

"Wait, you were going to _kill_ me?"

A wary expression crossed Shepard's face. "I saw the fear in your face as you thought about them. I'd assumed death would be preferable to facing the consequences of your escape attempt."

"And you were going to do that _instead _of trying to escape by yourself?"

Shepard's face darkened as he again wondered why he hadn't done just that. "I was in no fit state to be likely to succeed." He said stiffly.

"You were right, though. Death would have been preferable."

"Is this the bit where I get to hear about what Rossum did to you?" Shepard asked curiously.

"Not just Rossum. It's CEO. My... father."

"Sounds like I didn't miss out on as much as I thought, as an orphan." Shepard commented.

"He... used me. As his agent, his operative. Drove me to be perfect, without sympathy, praise or affection. I killed and stole and spied... and seduced, all for him. All for fear of him. And if I didn't match up to his expectations..." She trailed off, looking at him curiously. He was frowning. "Sympathy? Now _there's_ something I never expected to see from you."

"I've killed and stolen and spied, because I had to and because I wanted to. But forcing you to seduce people... it's practically equitable to rape. And that's one of the few crimes I cannot understand. Perhaps because I've never been comfortable with any human contact apart from violence." He said slowly, trying to understand the concepts, the reasons he thought that way.

"Even evil has standards." She commented, testing his reaction.

"As entertaining as that would be, I'm not what _I _would class as evil. I just look out for me, and only me."

"And yet you were willing to sacrifice any remaining chance of escape to kill me before I could be captured."

Silence.

"So how much can you do with your biotics?" Shepard asked eventually.

"I can manipulate gravity to an extent, as well being able to use dark energy. But I have to concentrate, and it took training. Not like you."

"I'm sorry?" Shepard looked at her disbelievingly.

"You heard me. I was watching you in action, you were using biotics; it was _damned _subtle, I don't think anyone else would have noticed, but you use it instinctively, I think, to make yourself faster, stronger, more accurate and graceful..."

"I'm good, I know, but last time I checked I wasn't glowing blue..."

"You were. It was just bloody difficult to notice, and you'd have to know what to look for. How else do you explain this; that shot in your leg broke the bone. Yet, you were able to run _with me on your _back and stay ahead of my father's men. At the very least, the break should have become much worse, yet it looks almost like you splinted it and kept on going anyway."

"I didn't even notice the break." Shepard thought aloud.

"What's more, in your scans there was no sign of any nodes of element zero in your body. You shouldn't even be a biotic, yet your abilities are unique; I've never heard of any biotics doing what you can, human or otherwise, and I've had an extensive education on the subject."

"What's your explanation, then?"

"I think you have a genetic mutation that allows you to do this. It's highly improbable; random mutation has all but ceased in humans since the first Industrial Revolution, and even less probable that it would result in something useful, let alone something like _this..._ but it's the only explanation."

"Jealous, Miss Lawson?" he asked slyly, clearly having used the news to inflate his ego further.

"Why _yes_, Master Shepard. Extremely so, since as my father wanted the perfect daughter, once biotics and the effects of element zero were discovered, as they didn't apply to me naturally, my father decided to make me undergo a highly painful procedure to implant element zero in me in order to _make_ me a biotic that nearly killed me, and that I can't forget, however hard I try."

Shepard winced at the tirade, then responded "My apologies. I was unaware."

An uncomfortable silence ensued, one that ended with Miranda coolly telling him that she should let him rest.


	6. Hormones

Chapter 6: Hormones

Shepard was becoming profoundly irritated with the effects of the hormones flowing through his system; they were interfering with his work; that could be the only explanation for the irrational behaviour he was displaying whenever in the vicinity of Lawson. Certainly, she was interesting, capable, aesthetically pleasing and intelligent, but he wasn't about to compromise the procedures that were keeping him alive in order to become her puppet. He liked her, he had to admit, which was new in and of itself, but he didn't trust her or anyone else, which meant maintaining control. He would join Cerberus for the money, maybe develop a cautious friendship with her, but ask that they be separated as far as assignments were concerned. It made perfect sense, he reflected. He was a covert assassin, and she was anything but ordinary; she would attract attention.

Miranda was becoming profoundly irritated with the cynicism of the psychopath she was dealing with. He had the potential to become the best humanity had to offer (it annoyed her to admit it, but pride was a failing that had to be surmounted), yet he was almost completely _in_human. He would certainly never submit to tests on his biotics without really believing, and that might be the most important thing he had to contribute! However, there was _just _enough floundering adolescent in him for the possibility of change, she realised, and it was she that was having that effect on him. She would have to try and exploit that, tempt him beyond the limits of his considerable self control, and bring him into the fold properly. It helped that she actually liked and respected the boy; something new for those she had had to seduce, but his paranoia (_for good reason_, she reflected, considering her motives) was inevitably going to be the biggest obstacle.

Shepard was mobile, if not fully functional, within a week, and it was then that Miranda decided to pay him another visit.

She found him sitting in a chair in his room, instead of on his bed, but his eyes were closed. However, when the door opened, his head immediately and unerringly swung to the source of the sound, and his eyes opened. Seeing her, he relaxed slightly, then realised it, and tensed up again. Miranda found this internal conflict vaguely reassuring.

"How're you feeling?"

"Good. I'll be ready to start work for Cerberus within a day or two." His judgement was identical to that of his doctor. Miranda sat on his bed, and quickly ran a programme on her Omni tool to kill all of the surveillance devices in the room. She sighed, considering her approach, and began.

"I still needed to thank you for your efforts, Thaddaeus. I'd either be dead or under far tighter security with no hope of escape without them."

"You paid me well." He retorted quietly.

"Not to go as far as you did. Not to risk your life for something like a mercy kill."

"I told you I'd never have gotten out of there anyway." He said, venom creeping into his voice.

She got up and stood just in front of him, her arms folded.

"We both know that's not it. That wouldn't matter if all you were concerned with was survival. You would have valued possible escape and my capture over being caught and killed and saving me from the same fate."

He lurched up quickly, rage in his face, and stalked past her to sit on his bed, further away from her.

"And what if I told you it was the effect of _fucking_ hormones rushing through my blood? Would it make you feel better? I can't even _think_ properly because of them. I DON'T want this!"

"What do you want, then?" She asked more quietly, beginning to understand him. He didn't trust anyone, but it wasn't just that, he didn't want to depend on anyone, either. He shied away from human contact because of the difficulties associated with them; quandaries that he found harder to solve. This was why the exception was violence; he didn't have to be concerned about their reactions or their well being, he just had to put them down while staying alive. He knew where he was with them when they were enemies; they were easier than friends. And further than that was even worse...

"Retirement. Comfort, isolation, and the opportunity to go out and have a decent scrap without having to worry about consequences. Peace and quiet." He replied laconically, no longer even looking at her.

"There's more to life than that." She told him, and moved to sit on the bed next to him. He didn't look up, but he tensed further. "I can understand your behaviour in the orphanage, Shepard. They focussed on the trivial side of life, when to you all that mattered as far as that was concerned was you. But what about the greater causes? What about the survival of humanity? We're not all as contemptible as they were."

"We're all dead anyway. In the long run this is certain; entropy always wins. Rule number one."

"So we _do_ have some rules. For your personal survival? You want to look after yourself, Shepard, you aren't a nihilist, not yet, and you'll find it easier if the human race is around to help."

"And why would you help? Why should I trust any of you with my wellbeing? My rules are there to protect me from you as much as anyone else. Rule number two; don't trust them." He said bitterly.

Miranda could see that stirring speeches weren't going to sway him; only logic could. "So you'd trust no-one to prevent the anarchy that is inevitable with people in the galaxy if they aren't controlled? Or would you trust the aliens? They're even less likely to consider your wellbeing; you won't even be the same _species_. You may not even be able to predict their actions accurately. Alien physiology is different to that of humanity; their psychology can only reflect that."

"Psychology is a soft science. Rule seventeen."

"No one can function perfectly one hundred percent of the time, Shepard. Especially not in this universe. Not while retaining their sanity. You need others as a safeguard." She said softly, touching his shoulder briefly. He hunched, but otherwise continued to talk normally.

"Rule Seven: if others cannot be trusted, you must act in their place. Rule thirty-one: sanity is not to be worried about; if you worry, you are sane, if you do not, you're already too far gone. Note: sanity is overrated. Although, I'm not sure I can be certain of that one. That's not the point. The rules protect me where no one else can or would; they must always be obeyed. Rule three."

She smirked at the ironic self awareness in his voice as he listed his barriers, a witty, autistic computer.

"You seem to be forgetting the one rule key to Darwinian survival, _Master_ Shepard: Rules are made to be broken." She said in a voice that was becoming sultry in nature. His shoulders started to shake, as he subconsciously relaxed, then consciously corrected matters, repeating the process several times a second.

"Rule one-two-seven." He admitted, amusement and a mild amount of strain finally showing in his voice. "I don't forget."

"Then break them..." She trailed off, an arch invitation in her voice. He didn't stop shaking, or look up. Miranda took matters into her own hands, reached out and stilled his shaking, before turning his head gently towards her, leaning forwards and kissing him on the lips. He didn't respond overtly, neither kissing her back nor pulling away, but she noted with satisfaction that his breathing through his nose had deepened, and become less erratic, though somewhat shaky. Her hands stroked along the top of his shoulders, moving surreptitiously to his neck, where she noticed his pulse was racing, before stopping at his face. Her tongue teased at his lips, attempting to gain access and deepen the kiss, but he remained unresponsive, frustrating her. He was hers for the taking, she knew, but this remaining resistance so close to victory was infuriating. Suddenly, he responded, opening his mouth and allowing her tongue to link with his own, and raising his hands to run through her silky black hair. Triumph (and a not entirely professional pleasure and delight) leapt within her, as she attempted to deepen the kiss further, and sighed happily into his mouth. Just as suddenly as he responded, he acted again...

He pulled away from her, used his hands to keep her away, and got up off of the bed to back away from her. _Should have done that sooner, dolt._ He thought to himself contemptuously, breathing heavily and struggling to regain control, flushing her scent from his nose. She sat, slightly surprised, looking mildly (_and attractively-SHUT UP! _He thought) dishevelled and flushed, frustrated desire clear on her face-but that was not to be trusted.

"What do you want from me?" He said shakily, fear clear in his voice, of her, and himself.

"What do you think?" She said, amusement in her voice, with an undercurrent of irritation.

"_Besides_ that, if indeed that can be trusted." He eyed her as if she might get up and come after him; she herself was considering the possibility.

"I want to work with you. For Cerberus. For humanity. You could do so much, Shepard. Even your potential as far as your biotics is astounding; on the research alone you could-"

"-a test subject. Delightful. And who's going to protect me as far as that's concerned? You?"

"_Yes_. Shepard, you can trust me."

"Can I? What if there was a choice, hmm? Between the greater good and my good self? What if you found something astounding, but had to dig around inside my head to verify or make use of it?"

"I'd make sure there were safeguards-"

"Say I had to be killed. Would you do it? Because safeguards wouldn't change _that_."

"If there was no other solution..."

"And there's my 'yes'. I'm an object to you; a valuable object, certainly, but if I became dangerous or could be traded for a more valuable one, away I go."

"That's _life_, Shepard. You just have to trust-"

"And there's that funny little word again. Trust in place of safety. What an interesting concept."

"Shepard, _please_. Give me a chance..." She pleaded, tears in her eyes. _Doesn't mean she's not a crocodile..._ He sighed.

"I'll give you samples of my DNA so you can verify your hypothesis. But I don't belong in a lab; if I'm to work with Cerberus, I'll be doing the wet works."

Miranda regained her composure, if indeed she had ever lost it, and stood up to move towards him.

"Thank you..." She said, approaching, but he held a hand up to ward off her advance.

"If you want me to be effective, stop fucking with my head. Please?"

She sighed heavily. "Alright." She held out a hand, and warily, he shook it.


	7. Repercussions

Shepard may have looked like he was asleep, even imitating his behaviour when he was asleep perfectly, but he wasn't. The notion that he would even be able to was absurd. Instead, he was struggling to decide upon the optimum course of action regarding Miranda. Clearly, the safest option would be either to renege on his deal and leave Cerberus, or request that she be formally kept away from him. That way, clear thought processes were guaranteed, and he didn't have to concern himself with her motives-he could concentrate on his own needs without chemical interference. But what if she was truthful when she said she wouldn't continue to play with his emotions? He _liked_ her, he couldn't deny it, regardless of whether her feelings for him were genuine-in fact, the idea that she was intelligent and devious enough to play him so well clearly would make her _more_ worthy of respect than less. He really wouldn't mind having her as an ally... _and if that's just the chemicals talking; which it is?_ The cynic in him said. And so he lay there, wrestling with the uncertainty that came with the fact that free will was a mere illusion. _Chemicals rule my brain, whether I like it or not; even if they didn't, my response to external stimuli is pre-determined. The problem is not the chemicals themselves, the problem is that they interfere with optimal function. And what about boredom, misery and depression? Might they not interfere? Not as much-we've met them before._

His internal debate raged silently until it was cut off by the sound of his door opening. He didn't move, preserving the illusion of sleep, while he considered the possible scenarios. It could be Miranda, back to tease him into further concessions... _Not anymore. She can always see through my pretence of sleep, and she invariable calls me out on it. So, a doctor? Why so late, and why alone?_

Shepard opened his eyes ever so slightly, taking care not to move any other part of his body out of its 'sleep' pattern. One of his doctors was standing by his bedside, holding a syringe, and looking sufficiently furtive that whatever he was doing was clearly _not_ something his colleagues would approve of. Thaddaeus focussed on the syringe, attempting to decipher the infinitesimal writing on its side. His eyesight, whilst being more or less perfect, was incapable of that feat. However, when the doctor tested it and prepared to insert it into his flesh, the boy decided that he didn't really care. When the needle approached his forearm, Shepard's other hand shot out and held it like a vice. The doctor was terrified, and had to forcibly stop himself from shouting aloud in alarm.

"Doctor, doctor, I'm suffering from an acute case of paranoia. Now why might that be?" Shepard enquired in a low, conversational tone that held just the slightest hint of menace.

"It-it's just something to help you sleep." The doctor stuttered nervously.

"Hmm, I don't doubt that, but what was going to happen afterwards?" The doc remained silent, and Shepard carefully stimulated a pressure point on the man's wrist just enough to make his gasp with pain.

"L-Lawson. He wants his daughter back, and you with her. I was to sedate both of you and take you off of the station."

"And what was the failsafe? He can't have thrown all of his trust into a pathetic specimen like you, not a man as rich as he is."

"A squad of Marines in the shuttle I was to use to extract you. Without a confirming signal every five minutes, their orders are to infiltrate the base and obtain you and her by whatever means necessary. You just missed the window." The man said, finally injecting some defiance into his voice.

"Just _wonderful. _Thanks _awfully_." Shepard said, his voice revealing some of his anger with his vicious sarcasm. He got up, wrenched the syringe from the doctor's grip, and looked at it. It was indeed a powerful sedative. "Miranda's dose as well, if you please." He held out his hand, and the doctor provided. "Thanks, doc. Now I think I need to do some self-medicating. I find violence extremely effective-" He said rapidly, before punching the man in the throat, crushing his windpipe, and watching him sink to the ground, gasping hoarsely for breath. Shepard was not satisfied. While any further action would save the good doctor some pain, it would also let him vent some of his rage. He bent, seized the man's head, held his torso still with his other hand, and violently snapped his neck. It was not a clean break, and the man was not yet dead. But Shepard felt better.

He left his room, and quickly stopped by a storage room and broke in to secure a surgical scalpel in case he encountered resistance, before making his way towards Miranda's quarters. _Why are you even bothering? You're _hopeless_. Henpecked. Shut up; she's my link to Cerberus, I need her alive if I can manage it. You're just rationalising. Perhaps, but I'm right, aren't I? Tosser._ He thought spitefully, and continued to make her way to her quarters, certain of the way, having followed her back to them surreptitiously after her attempt at seducing him earlier that day. He heard heavy footsteps up ahead; a team of three commandos were making their way towards his quarters. Shepard retreated to a side corridor, then sheltered in an office, letting them pass, before stealthily moving up behind the trio, and injecting two of them with the sedatives meant for him and his employer, before retreating slightly to give himself time to carefully pull the scalpel from his waistband and plan where to insert it into the final foremost member of the team, who was still blissfully unaware that he was alone...

Shepard moved past the three inert men. He left their guns; the temptation to use one would be difficult to resist, and could give himself away unnecessarily.

* * *

Miranda Lawson awoke at gunpoint. She had become alert at the sound of the safety catch being triggered, and inwardly swore at herself for not being alerted by the opening door. Instinctively, she tensed, and was unable to conceal her new awareness. She opened her eyes to see a heavily armoured commando in a full helmet looming over her.

"_She's awake." _A filtered male voice announced, presumably into his mike, before looking down at her. She could almost feel the sadistic grin spreading across the man's face beneath the helmet, his malevolence tangible. "_Good evening Miss Lawson. Your father requests your presence."_ With a flourish, he produced a syringe from a pouch in his armour, and stepped forwards to inject her-

Simultaneously, a pair of hands loomed up either side of the man's head, and violently wrenched his head first to the left then rapidly to the right again, snapping his neck. The man went down without a sound, and behind him stood Shepard, covered in disturbing amounts of blood, and with a feral gleam in his eyes that she should have found unsettling, but instead found reassuring. Amusingly, he was still dressed in somewhat inadequate patient garb; a loose fitting pale blue T shirt and trousers, his feet bare.

"We need to go." He said in a low voice. "Where are the shuttles?"

Miranda opened her mouth to answer, but at that point, all hell broke loose. Gunfire echoed in the corridors, and a siren began to wail. Shepard cursed fervently. "They must have had instruments in their armour that monitored their vital signs. I put too many down, and they decided to abandon stealth." He offered her his hand in order to assist her out of bed, which she declined, now fully alert thanks to the adrenaline surging through her system.

"How did they get here?" She snapped rhetorically.

"One of the doctors was a traitor. It was an inside job."

"Dammit! I should have realised that my father wouldn't let me go so easily! I just never thought he'd dare cross Cerberus..."

"Look, we can deal with this later. Where are the shuttles?"

"In the docking bay on the bottom level of the station." Miranda took the commando's Predator sidearm, whilst Shepard salvaged his single shot Mattock assault rifle. Both weapons were state of the art, utilising thermal clips to prevent overheating instead of conventional ammunition, reducing the possibility of a misfire to practically nil. They moved out, Shepard taking point, with absolutely no patience for any interference from the Rossum commandos. However, through some fluke, they managed to slip through the net and arrive at the docking bay without conflict. They entered, and immediately came under fire from the three heavily armed men guarding the shuttles. Shepard had no armour, and was bracing himself for the impact of the bullets-

When they impacted against a glowing blue barrier, put there by the woman behind him. Shepard couldn't deny that, when applied correctly, these biotics seemed like a _damned_ useful thing to have on his side. He opened fire with the single shot rifle, depressing the trigger rapidly, wearing down the shields of one of them before they finally gave-

And a single shot from behind him punched through the visor of the man's helmet and sent him into the Void.

Shepard didn't hesitate, but continued to strafe into cover, with Miranda following him, until they were sheltering behind a stack of storage crates. Miranda took a moment to recover from the strain of maintaining a one-way barrier, then followed Shepard out of cover again as he moved unerringly, avoiding the pattern of the enemy's shooting before plucking the penultimate man off with a cluster of well placed shots, overloading his shields before placing a round through a weak point in his armour.

Miranda didn't give him the satisfaction of letting him deal with the last one. She simply lifted him with her biotics, and sent him smashing into a bulkhead with what would have been a sickening crunch. If either of them had had anything even remotely resembling empathy for these men, which was somewhat understandable, given the circumstances.

He nodded to her, and then they saw a pair of shuttles start up and race out of the docking bay, through the shields that protected them from the hard vacuum of space. A pair of Cerberus personnel that had been too cowardly to attempt to make their escape while the enemy personnel were on the ground, presumably. They waited too long. High calibre anti-vehicle rounds punctured each vessel and caused their fuel tankers to detonate.

"They got to the station defences." Miranda said, her voice void of feeling. Shepard understood. There was no way they could get off of the station with its defences in enemy hands, and it would only be a matter of time before they were found or trapped.

"Where are they?" He asked her, attempting to adopt a businesslike tone, salvaging thermal clips and an earpiece from one of the dead men, and motioning for her to do the same. She looked at him, an almost animalistic terror in her face; the reaction her father provoked in her.

"_Where?_" He demanded more harshly, making her blink.

"The other end of the station; the command centre on the top floor. But they're bound to have reinforcements inbound..."

"Get a shuttle prepped. I'll be back when the defences are disabled."

"But-"

"I assume you _can_ fly one of these things? Because it's not really my forte."

"Yes." She said somewhat stiffly, as if it were a given.

"Then you have to get one ready to get us away at the earliest possible moment so we can avoid any reinforcements. Which leaves me to take them out. Get on with it." He told her brusquely, turned and stalked out of the hanger, towards the elevators, Mattock resting casually in his loose grip on his right shoulder.

She stared after him for a second, then turned and got into one of the shuttles and prepared it for takeoff.


	8. Unpleasantries

Chapter 8: Unpleasantries

Shepard entered hell as soon as he stepped off of the elevator at the top of the station. The enemy was ready and waiting for him, and he knew they were. Neither of them hesitated. As soon as the doors began to open, he rolled out through the small gap and to his feet, running for the nearest cover. As soon as the doors began to open, the enemy opened fire, bullets ripping through the expanding space. As a result, Shepard took a round to the gut, but managed to reach cover without further mishap-not that any more was necessary to royally fuck things up for him. Gut wounds were nasty; guaranteeing a nasty painful death pre-modern medicine, and he didn't even have any medigel.

He isolated the pain from himself, and peered out from cover to try and see the enemy's positions. Five heavily armed and armoured me, shielded and in cover, spaced out around the control console that he needed to access. They were good shots, too. That little peek was more than enough for one of them to wing him with a round, opening a long cut on the left side of his cheek, sending him back into cover just ahead of the subsequent, still more accurate shots. He needed something to get them ducking-_anything_, or he'd _never _make it out of cover and have time to do any damage before they riddled him with holes. Unfortunately, he had no grenades, and _his_ biotics were apparently no use for this kind of thing.

Then, he had a sadistic grin creeping across his face, and far more importantly, an _idea..._

_Thermal clips. What happens if you overload them?_

"Ah, fellas?" He called out over the barrier, letting the pain into his voice. "I don't suppose if I went quietly, Mr Lawson would have some medical attention for me?"

"_Try it and find out." _A filtered voice sneered back.

"Not reassuring, but OK..." He said, and rose slowly out of cover, his hands raised, the Mattock in his right, a thermal clip in his left. Foolishly, they assumed that it had been the one in the weapon, as he had intended them to, and so didn't react when he threw it to them, so that it lay in about the middle of their formation. Then, before they could respond, he quickly aimed the assault rifle at the clip, and squeezed off a single shot, before ducking away from the salvo that immediately responded-

A split second before the clip detonated with a surprisingly large explosion that staggered and stunned the three men nearest to it, and blinded the other two for a couple of seconds, removing their shields. Thaddaeus stepped out and picked the both of them off with quick headshots before they could recover, before moving forwards to execute the other three men. If he'd had time, he might have asked them about their plans, but he didn't want to hang about. He examined the relevant control panel, and managed to hack into it to deactivate the station's defences within a minute or so, using a dead man's Omni tool. Then, in to make the move irreversible, he planted several shots into the terminal-

Just as he saw a group of shuttles come out of FTL, with the Rossum logo on the side.

"Yes, _thank you_, Shepard said to no one in particular, feeling the injustice of the situation keenly.

"_Shepard. My father's brought in reinforcements." _Miranda's voice came through his earpiece.

"I know. The defences are down; you're going to have to make a run for it."

"_What?"_

"I've been shot. Gut wound. I won't be able to get to you in time for us to escape. You might as well go now..."

"_I'm sorry. This is my fault."_

"Not as sorry as I am, I reckon." He said mock soulfully. "A charming fellow such as me, cut down before I even reach my prime..." He snorted.

She laughed, then sniffed. When she spoke, it sounded like she was in tears.

"_Goodbye, Thaddaeus. Thank you_."

"My pleasure." He said, trying to keep his tone uncaring, and doing a reasonably good job.

He watched through the viewport as a lone shuttle exited the station and completed an FTL jump, just before the flotilla entered weapons range. Shepard altered his earpiece to the preset channel to talk to them.

"_Terribly_ sorry about that you chaps, I'm afraid you just missed her..."

Five minutes later, a team of commandos moved out of the elevator onto the top level of the station, to find a blood smeared Shepard grinning broadly at them, his hands raised and his T shirt shredded into a makeshift dressing for his gut wound.

"Now, I'm sure we can all be civilised about this..."

The commandos raised their guns.

"Oh, bugger."Shepard just about managed before he was tazered into oblivion...

* * *

He woke up. This surprised him in and of itself, briefly, then he realised that Rossum's CEO was probably the exact kind of vindictive egotistical git who would want to watch as those who thwarted him died a slow, painful death. _After all, if I had that kind of money, it's what I'd do..._

"Ah, Master Shepard, nice of you to join us at last." A voice drawled. Shepard sighed. _Perhaps this ability to read me is genetic..._ He opened his eyes. He was being restrained, held to a matt black chair in a matt black interrogation room, facing a matt black wall behind which, he assumed, was Miranda's father.

"Wow. You know, I always imagined living in a place like this... with a few more creature comforts, naturally... So, why am I still alive?"

"For the exact same reason that my pathetic flawed daughter went to you in the first place; you have potential. I'm not so short sighted as to want to squander someone of your unique talents for something as petty as _revenge_..."

"You do know that I'm not going to work for you willingly, I hope?"

"Naturally. Unless I controlled you, I wouldn't be able to trust you to look after my interests. If I did control you, I'd limit your use. No, I want you to work for the benefit of the human race against the other threats out there in the galaxy. Just not with Cerberus. The Illusive Man has told me he will not tolerate any further moves against his organisation to reclaim my dear daughter, so I have withdrawn my support from him."

"So who will I be working for?"

"The Human Systems Alliance. They aren't much, I know, and technically Cerberus operates as a black ops division alongside them. But a parting of the ways is coming, and if at that point you find yourself in the unhappy position of being on the opposite side of the divide to my daughter, well that will just be a happy accident that will likely result in her death. I have the utmost confidence in you, Shepard..."

"Well, you have me over a barrel at the moment, and as long as things remain that way, you'll be safe enough. However, you should know that you've inconvenienced me rather drastically, as has your daughter. I mean to have my compensation-and I'm a damn sight more intelligent than Shylock. I _will_ have my pound of flesh." Shepard said grimly, a strangely unpleasant clenched feeling in his abdomen. It might have been regret, but being unfamiliar with it, he wasn't sure. He smothered the feeling, and for the first time in the best part of a month, found he could think clearly again. A vicious grin spread across his face.

_Finally..._

* * *

Author note: This is the end of _Instigation_, but I intend to follow Thaddaeus Shepard on through the Mass Effect universe. Next stop, Torfan...


End file.
